


Two-Headed Boy

by warmommy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Filthy, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12854832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: Reader and Jon Snow have been in love for years, but all their dreams and hopes for the future are swept away by simple circumstance. Jon is to take the black. Reader is promised to another man. They spend one last night together, swept up in regrets for what could have been and their very first, and very last, sexual experiences together.





	Two-Headed Boy

**Author's Note:**

> And in my dreams you’re alive and you’re crying  
> As your mouth moves in mine, soft and sweet  
> Rings of flowers ‘round your eyes  
> And I’ll love you for the rest of your life 
> 
> \- Jeff Mangum
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

It was dark and the weather had turned to shit and you had heard Benjen Stark say it himself. Jon Snow was to take the black. Worse was other news. . .but you couldn’t think on it. It was so cold in the disused library tower, but, to keep your meetings here secret, you mustn't light a fire. You shivered instead, your cloak drawn heavy around yourself, and waited in miserable indignation.

In your mind, you turned words over and over, like fingers finding every etch upon a gold dragon. Your imagination flexed as the search for the perfect words, the perfect insults, pushed on. You damned the tears that you wiped away with the back of your hand and kept your eyes trained on the door, wondering how many books the library had in store, and if it were enough to raze Winterfell. May that sweet bastard consume the ashes and the embers.

He came upon you like a ghost, like the thing that haunted this castle; a soft press of his lips to the back of your head did not frighten you. You had grown accustomed to his ability to move about like a phantom years before.

You turned around to face him, and all the anger that stiffened your bones dissipated upon seeing those dark, lovely eyes. Yours began to mist again. “Please, don’t go. Please.”

“Y/N.” Jon kissed your forehead and your cheek in an effort to quell your tears, but this time kisses could not work. He pulled you close enough to cover you with his cloak. “This is better. You will know it soon.”

Where was your fight? Where was your spark? Where was all of your indignation? Why was there now only misery?

“Jon, please.” You felt pathetic, crying there in his arms, but all the worse was knowing that soon, you would have nothing to cling to. Not his cloak, not his leathers, nary a buckle or tie. It was real, and you knew it. Your voice was broken. “Jon, you  _promised_  me.”

“Aye. I know.” He sighed and pressed his lips to your skin again like this was  _his_  regret. “But I never had anything to promise you, Y/N. I know you know that. I know you understand it.”

“How can you make an oath to the Night’s Watch if you can break the ones you made to the woman that  _loves_  you, Jon?”

“Maybe it’s atonement,” he postulated. He managed to get you over to a sunken leather armchair and pulled you into his lap. “I believed that, even as a bastard, I still had something to give you. I believed I could build that life we always spoke of. I believed it, Y/N. I don’t want to abandon those dreams any more than I want to abandon you, but we were only children when we made them. We did not know what we do now. What was Father ever to do with me? In what lifetime would your father agree? There was always something better for you, at Winterfell.”

“Whatever you wish, Jon, my love, I’ll go with you. We can join a mercenary company in the Free Cities. We could go beyond the Wall.”

He held you much more tightly, and you could feel his eyelashes flicking against your temple. “The North is your home. I’ve got nothing. I won’t see you suffer and I won’t see you starve. You’ll see that this was the best thing, Y/N. I’ll never forget you. Would you forget me?”

The question devastated you, drew the breath from your lungs, and you cried so hard that he had to cover your mouth to keep the sound from echoing and others becoming privy to your location. 

“If I were a king, you’d be my queen,” he whispered in your ear. You slipped your hand over his and squeezed. “All that I can make of my life is following my uncle’s footsteps as a raider on the Wall. My time in Winterfell has run out. Father is the Hand, now. He rides south with King Robert soon. I am his son, but I am not hers, and I know that she will have me leave. It is better this way. There is pride, dignity, in making this choice for myself. It’s the only one left for me to make, don’t you understand?”

You nodded and the conversation stalled. You shivered in Jon’s arms and felt the waves of regret and remorse rolling off him; it was almost warm, though nothing would ever be warm again. When a man joined the Night’s Watch, he was as good as dead to the rest of the world. The wind howled outside, past the crumbly granite windows, and eventually the rain slowed into a gentle shower.

“I take you, Jon,” you whispered, fingers entwined with his. You turned your head slightly to look into eyes both soft and black. “You are my husband as well as you are my heart.”

“It’s what I wanted.” More regret, more remorse. A fine thread pulled upward between his eyebrows, forming the perfect crease. “Do you believe me, Y/N? Do you know this is also the hardest thing?”

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cold.”

“Y/N, Robb will take care of you. He’ll be kind to you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I could not love him any more than I could love that horrible squid boy that follows him about everywhere and sneers at everyone. Though Robb would certainly be my preference, between the two.”

“Y/N. . .”

“There’s nothing wrong with Robb, but there’s everything wrong with him. Robb isn’t  _you_.”

“I have thought that it would be one of my only comforts at Castle Black, knowing that you will be a Stark, and your husband will treat you with kindness and respect.”

You scoffed again. “No, it isn’t. You loathe the thought. You try to loathe him, but you can’t. The thought of me in Robb’s arms doesn’t comfort you.”

Jon let go of a long sigh, some of his black curls touching your face. “I can’t let it destroy me.”

“Well, it destroys  _me.”_ You kissed him suddenly, feeling his wind-chapped lips against yours, loving the whole of him to this regrettable depth where there was pain and would always be pain. You held him fast, nevertheless. You kissed him with all the empty anger you possessed, chased with thumping, starry-eyed passion of all your younger days together, finishing with the longing that filled the spaces in between your visits to Winterfell, knowing all the while that Jon Snow was yours and you were his.

“I love you,” you whispered through kisses down his shaven chin, the hollow of his throat.

Jon’s hands were gentle in pushing you away. “What are you doing?”

You persisted, pulling his clothes as far from his neck and collarbones as you could to make room for your lips and listen to the soft way he panted. “I’ll never look at you again after this night, Jon. I can’t. After tonight, it must be as though there were no looks of love, no stolen kisses, nothing. But for now. . .”

Now was a moment for you both to forget honour. Your unlearned hands were clumsy in unfastening and untying each other’s clothes. Due to the unseasonably cold weather, there were not many layers that could be shed, in the dark of the old library tower, but Jon laid you on makeshift bedding of cloaks. He looked down at you with red on his cheeks and his Adam’s apple moving slowly. 

“I do love you,” he said. “I did mean everything that I ever said to you. I want it more than you could know.”

“No, I do know,” you insisted. You helped him push your skirts up over your hips and stared up at the ceiling with sharp and worried eyes when you heard the sounds of his pants coming open. He touched you first, though, unsure of his actions, but eager, and all of the encouragement whispered and moaned through your lips proved positive reinforcement enough for Jon to grow. . .brave.

“Gods be good,” you whispered. 

Jon laughed quietly and looked up at you from between your knees, and you could no longer  _bear_  to gaze downward when he did it again. The soft and lovely lips that had kissed you a thousand times were kissing all about some place that you were suddenly so aware of. 

It was what love felt like in the body, you reasoned, before reason fled you, too. Your breath came in stilted huffs and staggering inhalations; Jon ran his tongue along the places he was kissing and your whole body shook. “Oh, Jon. . .more.”

He was creating something very pleasant--a blissful kiss of fire, or was it purely pressure? Was it breathing inside of you, a new creature, a new life, or were those long, achingly good pulses merely a product of your quick heartbeats and slow breaths?

Jon learned fast the things that sharpened your movements and made you feel swollen and tingling. You were saying nonsense things beneath your breath and silently praying, with a thrill running up your spine, that someone would see you as you were, with Jon Snow licking and sucking and kissing between your legs like he loved no taste better. You could  _hear_  the indecency and it brought a grin to your cheeks. His breath was so warm on such  _sensitive_  and marvelously tortured skin. . .

The heat in the room was smothering now. The heat within your own body was splendid fever that threatened to swallow your life up inside.  _There_. His tongue was hot, too. You closed your eyes and felt your chest lift from the floor, felt your abdominal muscles tense and freeze you in place. Some of the worse curses you’d heard uttered amongst the smallfolk came pouring out of your mouth like milk and honey, all silk and feeling and you grabbed a fistful of Jon’s thick black hair.  _There_.  _Just there_.

“Y/N,” Jon whispered. He was holding you now because your body was too weak and your hands still shaking. He kissed you and his lips were softer, fuller, no longer feeling chapped by the harsh winds that whipped through Winterfell. The kiss was everything you’d ever known of Jon Snow, and Jon Snow was everything you’d ever known of anything. Of love. Of breathing. Of wanting. This was the first time, and it would also be the last.

“Well, go on.” You smiled at him, all breathless and all tension gone from your body. You laughed softly and kissed him again briefly. “My Jon Snow.”

“I can’t do  _that_. Your maidenhead is not for me.”

You kissed him harder and reached down between his legs, because he was yours, and you were his. Jon gasped against your lips, then bit his, choosing his movements carefully. You only smiled up at him lazily. He was more easily persuaded than he liked to seem.

He seemed as enthralled and enraptured as you had been, and it was  _fascinating_  to watch. He held himself up on one elbow above you and never, ever had he been so beautiful to witness before. You wanted out from under him, to do more of the same that he’d done to you, but he would not be budged. Nothing that you had done, nothing that you were doing, seemed wicked or sinful, as it had always been portrayed. Jon was powerful, you knew that, had seen him spar and fight, but it was you that felt powerful, now.

“Come with me,” he whispered, his hand wrapping around your wrist. He swallowed and took a heavy breath. “Please, Y/N.”

You followed with your eyes squarely on his. He pricked you up from the cloaks spread upon the floor and sat in the leather chair. While you stood before him, he took you by the hips and guided you into his lap, to sit facing him, your legs astride, and  _oh--_

There was effort on both your parts, him helping you, you concentrating. It was impossible to look away from the wolf-hungry eyes that gazed back from behind thick eyelashes and even thicker hair. Jon was helping you ease down on him, and you did not want him to see that it sort of pinched, that it was a strange feeling. You wanted him to believe that it felt just as good as it had before. It seemed like ages before you were down in his lap, and he kissed you hard and deep, full of promises that had died already. He showed you exactly how to move, his hands still on your hips, and you gained the rhythm yourself, rising with your knees and the muscles of your inner thighs, and he would pull you back down until you were filled with him again.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful,” he cursed, angling his hips up to meet yours. “I lied. I wanted this. I wanted you for myself.”

“Be selfish, Jon.” You kissed each of his eyelids and then his lips again. “Don’t you feel how our bodies fit together?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

His hands grew too rough, but you understood that passion. You chased after it, doing all you could to make him gasp again, to fill him up with the same lovely things that he had given to you. You were making a fool of Robb, both of you. It dawned on you, looking down at the man you loved, that it would be his brother’s Tully blue eyes you looked into next. Shorter hair, curly still, but brown and red. A fine man. He would some day be Lord of Winterfell, and you believed he  _would_  be kind to you. It was only that he was not, nor could he ever be, Jon Snow.

Jon shouted against your shoulder and stopped moving, stopped you from moving, using his arms to still you and hold you skin tight to him. He panted harshly and let his forehead fall against you. One of his hands snaked up your back and to your neck. It was rather unpleasant to feel him leave your body, especially with some sort of fluid following, and you felt an empty ache in the space he had been.

Too soon, he was gone. Too soon, he gave you a stuffy goodbye with all of his real self locked up inside so that his eyes were steely and hard. You understood. You knew well. In a matter of weeks, you would be another man’s wife, his brother’s wife, and he would be clad in black, sworn from ever taking a wife or having sons. Your lives were to be spent apart, separated by hundreds of miles. You sat back in the leather seat where you had kissed and held each other and you had lost your virginity, waiting half an hour to avoid detection, and cried softly against the cloak he had left behind.


End file.
